


Rain

by hetalia_smut



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Background Character Death, Blood and Injury, Character Death, Fluff and Angst, Historical Hetalia, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 13:58:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15316983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hetalia_smut/pseuds/hetalia_smut
Summary: Arthur rolled his eyes and sighed, shaking his head, but still a smile made its way into his chapped lips. "You're a complete idiot, Jones." He laughed lightly. "A good-hearted, brave idiot."





	Rain

_ Normandy, France _ _   
_ _ 13:04 CEST, Sunday, July 2, 1944 _

* * *

Burgundy blood caked underneath his nails, dyeing his once sun kissed fingertips the color of chaos. Index finger posed around the trigger of a M1903 Springfield as Alfred scoped out his next target. Glasses and scopes weren't meant to get along but neither were glasses and war and here he was. Most men with glasses were relieved to hear that war didn't agree with them, that they could stay with their families. His family, however, was here, an issue that he took to Patton who eventually permitted him service. Everyone sans Mattie and the Mex was in Europe, fighting each other. He needed to be there; his countrymen were there. He needed to share in the fight against tyranny. The battlefield was his home, the soldiers his brothers. He had no family to stay with across the ocean, they're all here.   
  
Crosshairs aligned themselves over the chest of an enemy soldier, advancing toward their lines. With a simple click, the soldier fell backwards into a muddy puddle. They'd sent him to snipe from a broken bell tower, he had steady hands and a sharp eye, perfect for sharpshooting. He moved to his next target, a single straggler before Nazi reinforcements would arrive. Then the party would start.   
  
"You must be used to this, huh?" The German fell from the hit. The American shifted his oceanic eyes over to the other blond before nodding towards the weeping heavens.   
  
"Oh, yes. The rain." Arthur kept his eyes on the narrow street below that was cluttered with debris from previous Allied bombings. Mucky water ran like veins, draining into puddles like clotted blood. Alfred had forgotten about the irritation of damp socks and the constant dripping of the rain running off the rim of his helmet. Rain was a setting, a subsequent aspect to the current reality. No one remembers it until it's brought up. "It's French rain, of course it's annoying."  
  
The two stayed silent for a small while, the world quiet for a moment. It wouldn't last. "Ya know, I always thought you looked nice in the rain."  
  
This caught the Englishman's attention, drawing his eyes sharply from the the ground. He studied the American, trying to see what he was playing at. He only could detect a form of sincerity that was native to most of the innocent and naïve things that tended to spill from his mouth. Yet, he still kept a suspicious and somewhat surprised look about him, defending himself if this was a type of adolescent joke.   
  
The American, noticing his guardedness, immediately sought cover with "Not in a queer way!" He got out quickly, back pedalling. "I just, I don't know," he looked away from him, back out to the desolate street. "I guess it's just others get upset over weather. They complain all the fuc–, sorry, time." He gave a shrug. "You just complain about French people."  
  
"Alfred, that's the same as commending you for being obnoxious. It's something you are and you can't change it even if you wanted to." England pointed out, having turned away to stifle the colour rising into his cheeks.   
  
"Hey, I'm not _that_ obnoxious! " America refuted, the other man rolled his eyes before silence fell on them again.   
  
"Hey, Iggy?"   
  
The Englishman looked over at the other, trying to muster up a type of anger to show for the name but falling short, letting sadness surface. "Yes?"  
  
"After this war, how about you and me go get some soda together, huh?" There was a teasing youth about Alfred’s tone as he took up a perfect Brooklyn accent. "Just you, me, and five pounds of sugar? Whatcha say, _Limey_? " He gave a wink.   
  
Arthur rolled his eyes and sighed, shaking his head, but still a smile made its way into his chapped lips. "You're a complete idiot, Jones." He laughed lightly. "A good-hearted, brave idiot."   
  
The tan boy smiled and winked. "Just for you, baby."  
  
In the silence just after his words they both heard the screeching and grinding of metal on metal, forcing both to quickly assumed their positions and use their scopes to see ahead. The British man stood up, hanging slightly over the side of the partially collapsed brick. He signalled down to a captain who shouted the figures as he saw them symbolized. Three Panzers, a Kfz and 4 infantry units were headed for their position to take the bridge. A day's work.   
  
Tension lay thick like August air, impossible to ignore and unenjoyable to breathe in. Between a Springfield and a Thompson submachine, the two could do some damage. It's just regular Jerry anyway, SS wouldn't be concentrated here, they'd be up the river in Caen. The Allies would clean up shop and move out. They'd persuaded him to work with the army temporary because of his language skills. Hopefully he could get back to the sky soon, even though it was good palling around with Dad.   
  
Soon the Germans came flooding into the streets and one by one they started to get picked off, blood mixing with rain until the streets were flush with red. Grenades shook the ground and men screamed, hardly heard above the drone of firing machine guns. The only thing missing was more ammunition. After the ping of a finished clip, the American discovered he only had one more round left. "I'm gonna go find Jacks for amo. You're good?"  
  
Seeing as the Englishman waved the boy off, Alfred headed down the tower, footing sure as it could ever be in rubble. At the bottom, he stopped in the the corpse of an old cathedral, his back against the wall. He moved carefully, not wanting to waste shot. He found the Private carrying the ammunition and made eye contact with him; soon he was resupplied and hurried his way back to his potion. Upon arriving there, the American found the other blond crumpled on the floor, blood spilling from his chest.   
  
People die everyday; car crashes, illness, too cold, too hot, water, fire, in war or in peace. Soldiers are sent to Europe told they will be liberators, that God in heaven would shine down among his sons and grant them grace. But one by one they get picked off and replaced, no angel appeared and no trumpets sounded. It was different when you were fighting alongside nations that you'd known in your first memories. When they died, the ocean seemed to halt and the air seemed to collapse; for a moment the earth stopped and was no longer part of you. It was just land and people were just bones, the sky was gas and the ocean water droplets. Flags were cloth, soldiers were children, and God's intangible grace was void.   
  
Alfred was beside him before he knew it, applying pressure to the wound quickly. He tore away at the other's clothes, readied alcohol and spilled some onto the site. "It's going to be okay," he said very clearly, trying carefully not to convey panic through his voice. "I know it'll be okay." His hands were shaking as he reached for his pack to grab bandages, but was was caught in a weak grip by a paler one. America’s efforts were lost as he turned his whole focus to the green eyes he knew better than anyone else's in the world.   
  
"I promise you it will be okay." His words were faltering. A lifetime of regrets rushed forward and presented themselves to him. What was lost could never be regained even though they had more chances than a mortal. When the final death draws near, nothing could make up for lost time. "You're okay, it's all okay." He murmured, running a hand through the other's messy hair. A chest wound wasn't a sustainable wound, not at the rate Arthur was bleeding. They both knew that.   
  
The British soldier rested his hand on the other boy's cheek, looking into his eyes. "Don't leave me." His voice didn't seem to belong to him, perhaps to another: someone weaker and a much less proud person. No pride in the world could stand between him and Alfred in that moment.   
  
"I won't." The American promised, fighting the tide of emotion. "Never again."   
  
Time never had moved faster, seconds became blinks before chaos was silence to him. Alfred found himself to be alone in a bell tower, left with a war and a promise. "I'm sorry," the soldier teared up, the weight of the world putting pressure on his chest. "I'm so so sorry." He cried, rain mingling with tears. Rain. What a trivial matter, what a waste of a conversation, what a stupid thing to talk about. They could have talked of anything, something important, but it had been rain they chose to waste time on. Even after death, rain still continues on and waits for no one. 


End file.
